All These Empty Spaces
by Raylion
Summary: How much can one lose, before it becomes too much? Sometimes, even the strongest walls crumble into ruin. / After the events of episode 4x18, Oliver struggles with his new reality. (Oliver-centric, with mentions of Laurel/Oliver, and a lot of Queen-sibling bonding.)
1. Ruin

I started writing this story in April of 2016, in reaction to episode 4x18. Oliver has lost so many important people to him during the years, and I think losing Laurel should have been the last straw for his psyche. So this story will delve into that; the second and final part is already written, and I will post it soon.

The first chapter is pretty hopeless and bleak, and focused solely on Oliver.

The second part will see him deal with his loss, come to some realizations, and features a lot of sibling time between Thea and Oliver.

Pairing(s): Brief meaningless interlude of Oliver/random!OC; otherwise Laurel/Oliver (or as much as it can be, when one of them is _gone_ )

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me; but I sure wish it wasn't in the hands of Guggenheim & Co...

* * *

 **Part 1: Ruin**

Once upon a time, Oliver Queen's death ruined Laurel Lance's life.

He cheated on her, got involved with her sister, took said sister on a yacht, and got them both seemingly killed.

So maybe it could be called poetic justice to say that Laurel Lance's death ruined Oliver Queen's life in return.

 _..._

Laurel Lance had been The Black Canary. Once this knowledge became public, once the news reported on her death, and the eye witness accounts of what had transpired in the hospital came out, most citizens of Star City started to put the pieces together.

It took less than 48 hours after one of Star City's heroes had drawn her last breath for the press to come to the conclusion that Oliver Queen had to be The Green Arrow.

Thankfully, the police was severely lacking in evidence to back up what everyone now believed.

 _..._

He would turn around to say something to her, only to realize she wasn't there.

He would walk along the street and think he'd glimpsed a curtain of golden curls in the distance that could only belong to her.

At night, when they were out and fighting for the city, sometimes he would hear her steps behind him, the slight creaking of her leather, the sound of her breathing. If he turned around, she would never be there. If he didn't, the sounds would haunt him, like a ghost silently walking beside him.

In fights, he'd hear the sound of her kicks and punches, hear her cry out in rage and fierceness. A few times, when things got bad and the situation looked bleak, he'd imagine hearing the Canary Cry, cutting like a beacon of hope through the night, and he would know to keep on fighting.

She was everywhere, and yet once he looked, searched, or reached out for her, she was nowhere.

 _..._

Later, he wouldn't even be able to recall how he got into bed with the girl from the bar.

The mixture of grief, rage and devastation which he carried around at all time made for a strange bed-fellow, and through the haze of his warring emotions, he couldn't remember much of the events that led up to their tryst.

It had been another bad day, and then somehow, he had ended up in a ruddy bar near his apartment. For the most part, his brooding and subdued posture had kept people away; until the pretty red-head had sat down next to him. He hadn't really been drunk at that point, just buzzed enough that he didn't mind the company. They hadn't really talked much, just sat next to each other and toasted to bad days and life's harshness. When she had left, he had followed to find her waiting for him outside the bar.

It was easy, uncomplicated. He didn't really see red hair spilling over his pillows, didn't see warm brown eyes. Somehow, he wasn't really there with her, his mind drifting.

His head and heart and memories were somewhere else, far away.

Afterwards, she didn't snuggle close to him like many of his previous bed-partners had done, but just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The buzz from the alcohol was still in his system, but he felt too wound up to think about sleep, despite the exhaustion that should have claimed him.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of messed up", the red-head said, and it took Oliver a few moments to actively recall that her name was Ashley. There was no malice in her words, and her comment didn't really sting, but it did annoy him slightly. She didn't know him, or his life, or what he was going through.

"But it's alright, I knew what I was in for." She got up with those words, and started collecting her clothes.

"So why bring it up in the first place?", Oliver asked, trying not to feel irritation well up within him. He had taken enough criticism and verbal beatings over his behavior in the last months, no _years_ , he didn't need any more. He watched her move around, for the first time really taking in her features, the lines of her body. It slowly dawned on him then, that he had been on complete auto-pilot the last few hours.

The red-head shrugged nonchalantly, while putting on her underwear. "Our issue are part of us. And the way you sat hunched over on that bar stool, it was clear as day that you were there to drown your sorrows."

Pulling on her jeans, she added: "Besides, I'm not quite sure you actually realized that you called out another girl's name."

He froze at that, his mind going blank. In all his years, even though he had been with various women, he had never ever mixed up anyone's names. Things like that just didn't happen to him.

"Who…?", he voiced his confusion in one word, and the woman in his bedroom laughed slightly at that. It was far from a happy sound, resigned and slightly sad in nature. She watched him for a moment, dark eyes searching for something. What, he couldn't even guess at.

"I'm no expert, but I think you have a shit-ton of pent-up emotions if you even have to ask that."

Jacket in hand, she stepped up next to the side of the bed he was still lounging in. With a tenderness that didn't fit their quick interlude together, she kissed his forehead.

"We both got what we wanted out of this, that's all that matters. It was fun, but don't call me", and with these words, she stepped away from him and left.

Oliver remained seated on the bed, frozen in thought, indecision and taken aback by the complete weirdness of the whole encounter.

Later, when he went downstairs after taking a shower, he froze upon what he found on the table: a note, next to the picture frame that usually sat on the side table by his front door.

With trepidation, he picked up the paper, dreading its contents.

' _Sorry for your loss.  
_ – _A'_

Focusing on the picture, his hand unconsciously let go of the note, and it fluttered back onto the tabletop. Laurel's face smiled up at him, as beautiful as she had always been, and her eyes seemed to be all-knowing.

"What are you doing, you idiot", he muttered to himself, deciding that this was the last time he picked up a woman in a bar. He just really hoped she didn't go to the press with the story of how former-playboy-millionaire Oliver Queen had taken a stranger home and called the wrong name during sex.

The name of a dead woman he had wronged in so many ways. A name he had no right to ever say in this context ever again.

 _..._

The apartment was his personal hell.  
His sister still lived there, and every time he came by to check on Thea, it was the little things that would slowly squeeze the air out of him.

She was everywhere.

On the couch, where her scent lingered even weeks after she had last sat there.  
On the armchair, where the old purple and brown checkered blanket still lay folded, the one he had known to be hers for almost as long as he had known her.  
In the kitchen, where her favorite mug remained on a shelf, the ugly yellow one he had always hated, with the smallest chip in the handle.  
In Thea's bedroom, where he watched over his sister sometimes at night, and where a short black leather jacket hung that he knew to be the one Sara had once gifted Laurel.  
The painting of the bright green forest in the hallway she had always loved.  
The picture frames on the wall, portraying years gone by in the form of family and friends.

Only once did he dare to enter the bedroom. Her bedroom, where her scent still lingered. Where the outfit she had last worn to work was still laid out on a chair, where her bed was still unmade in shades of midnight blue. Her bedroom, where he remembered making love to her.  
It should have brought him peace, to have so many reminders of her. To feel her so close, when she wasn't with them any longer.

But there was no comfort to be found for Oliver Queen.

She was everywhere. But as always, she was also nowhere.

 _..._

Many nights, sleep brought no rest.

Nightmares kept waking him, and every time he was trapped between sleep and consciousness, the dead lingered around him.

Moira was practicing forms and movements with a bloody Katana in hand. Tommy kept throwing tiny pieces of bricks against the window, like the deadly satire of an old romance cliché. Robert juggled bullets through the air, _one, two, three, four, five_ , always dropping the sixth one. Others, like Shado, Yao Fei and Slade, occasionally lingered in the corners of the room, but always kept themselves in the background, like silent spectators.

And then there was Laurel. She was the only one who kept changing. Like her ghost had not settled in his nightmares. Sometimes, she just stood next to his bed in her hospital gown, stained red, staring at him with dead eyes. Other times, she'd be dressed as the Black Canary, tossing her tonfas mindlessly in the air and catching them again.

Once, she was there after a nightmare, tucked into bed next to him. Comforting him, smiling at him, caressing him. And then she leaned in, and whispered: "Want to hear a secret?"  
Fool that he was even in his dreams, he nodded in anticipation. She leaned back then, still smiling, warmth and love in her eyes. And in the next moment, she opened her mouth and let loose her Canary Cry.  
That night, he came to on the floor, with a huge bruise on the back of his head, nothing but white noise and the rapid hammering of his heartbeat filling his ears.

Once in a while, she would sit curled up next to him, back against the headboard, and just watch him. These moments were the closest to peace he got during those nights.

Come morning, his ghosts would fade, but his exhaustion stayed. Rest became more and more difficult to find. On some days, he felt like he had never left the island.

 _..._

The arrows that had once been his signature weapon remained untouched in his quiver. He switched to beating people up with his bow or his fists. Every arrow he saw, or heard whistle through the air, was the arrow that had stolen her away. It was his arrow, his weapon, that had killed her. And although a part of him wanted to taint the streets _red, red, red_ with the same weapon, just like her blood had stained his gloves, his suit and the hospital bed underneath her, there was another, bigger part of him, that just could not look at another arrow ever again without seeing her blood.

Things turned from bad to worse, when in a fight going badly for the team, Speedy took one of her arrows to stab her attacker in the shoulder. Blood kept pouring out from the wound, and red was all he saw for a long while, until Spartan finally snapped him out of it. Like an amateur, the Green Arrow had frozen on the spot. It was only one of many close calls that would follow.

As it turned out, his _issues_ with arrows weren't restrained to battle. Even in the bunker, the mere sight of his arrows made him sometimes space out for a minute, and all he would see would be her, stabbed by Damien Darhk, lying bleeding on that hospital bed, suddenly gone after telling him...

No. _No._

The arrows remained in the bunker from then on, and Thea took care to use them only where he wouldn't see them hit.

 _..._

And piece by piece, his life fell into ruin.


	2. Promises Kept

Note: Alright, here we go. Would you believe, that I had this thing completely finished months ago, and then on my final read-through a few days ago I suddenly got inspired? Yeah, so this part saw a few additions in the last week, because suddenly the characters started speaking to me again. So much for planning in advance.

A huge thank you to my reviewers, **OllielovesDinah** and **mfj2468** , I was honestly so touched to get any reviews at all. It was a very bright spot in an exhausting week. And an equally huge thanks goes to the people who favorited or followed, I'm just so happy to see that people read this story.

 **Warning** : This part does deal with the Oliver/Felicity relationship a little bit. I tried to stay respectful within the bounds of this story, but I deliberately didn't delve further into it. I hope I succeeded in incorporating canon, but twisting it a little to tie back more into Oliver's actions and words of season one and two.

As usual, nothing belongs to me.

* * *

 **Part 2: Promises Kept**

Laurel Lance's death ruined Oliver Queen's life. It revealed his real self to the world, made him useless as an archer and made him doubt his sanity.

Eventually, her death might have cost him his life as well. And had Dinah Laurel Lance been a different kind of woman – vengeful, spiteful and petty – one might have seen this as poetic justice too.

But that had never been her, or what she would have wished for him.

 _..._

Ultimately, it was Thea who took charge of the situation. After another mission that had gone everything but smoothly, she took him aside in the bunker and thrust a business card at him.

"Here. I got in touch with Walter, asked him about finding someone trustworthy who would keep your secrets."  
He stared at the card in confusion, finding no name, no address, but merely a phone number on it.  
"What is this?"

"The number of a psycho-therapist. You need help, Ollie. Real help. Because you keep spacing out, and you haven't been yourself since Laurel..." She stopped and swallowed heavily, still so affected by her grief that she wasn't even able to finish that one sentence.

His first instinct was to get angry and rip the card apart. He couldn't believe that his own sister had lost so much trust in him. But then out of the corner of his eye, something black caught his attention. Her suit. Usually he avoided looking at it, tried to pretend it wasn't there. He didn't even know who had brought it in from the hospital, had cleaned and mended it. Nobody had had the heart or stomach to move it. To the others, it was a reminder, as well as a monument. To Oliver, it was nothing but torture.

He looked back at Thea, registered the resolve and determination in his sister's eyes.  
"Please, Ollie. I've already lost so many people in my life. I need to know that you can do this, that you can deal with this. I need to know that I won't lose you too. I need you to promise me that you'll at least try."

He crushed her to him then, hugging her tight and hid his face in her hair, so his tears wouldn't show.

... _.._

Dr. Ellis was an wholly unremarkable man. In his mid-forties, with black-rimmed glasses, the man exuded patience and calm, but at the same time he seemed curious. His handshake was firm, but not aggressive or testing in the least. The office looked clean and simplistic, but also friendly and was currently flooded with daylight. Two large armchairs took up space around a low table, and the walls were adorned with photographs of people from all walks of life.

"Mr. Wallace, please take a seat." The name felt foreign to Oliver's ears. But this facade was necessary, even if admittedly probably not really effective anymore. After all, everyone in Star City was aware of his nightly activities. It was ridiculous to assume that this man didn't know exactly who he was, but there really was no way to avoid that. And Oliver had decided – for Thea's sake – to trust his step-father's judgment about this man. If Walter trusted Dr. Ellis, that would have to be enough for Oliver. That, and the anti-surveillance equipment packed away in his bag, ensuring no one would ever be able to listen in, much less record anything said in the room.

"If it is alright with you, I would like to first explain the process of what we do here?" Dr. Ellis asked, adjusting his glasses slightly and Oliver couldn't muster more than a nod in response.

"There are different forms of psychotherapy..."

When the one hour long introductory session was over, Oliver left the office feeling a mixture of apprehension, skepticism and hope. The doctor had answered all his questions, and through he was not quite sold yet, he had decided he would give it a real try. Just like he had promised Thea.

.. _..._

 _The maniac was laughing, the insane laughter of one who knows he has lost and feels time slipping through his fingers like sand. A man beaten, who still reared up desperately to make his last stand._

" _How does it feel, now that I'm finally about to kill the love of your life? After all, as Detective Lance can attest to, I keep my promises, Mr. Queen!"_

 _There was a blade to the blonde's throat, and Oliver knew what he was supposed to feel: absolute horror and fear at the thought of losing her. After all, she was supposedly the love of his life, right? That's what everyone had kept telling him in the last years. That's what he had believed, when he had gone down on his knee before her, ring in hand. It had turned into this tale of the cute blonde who had stumbled into his life, this woman who had first become his ally, then his friend and then more. This woman he had learned to love, who had shown him how much easier love seemed when there was no past hurt behind you, but only the potential future ahead._

 _Where had it all gone so wrong?_

 _Instead of abject horror and fear freezing him in place, instead of rage blinding him, another feeling took over: absolute calm and focus. Focus that allowed him plan, to see Thea in position to hit Darhk in the back, for himself to ready a throwing knife to hit the hand holding the blade. There was no hesitation. It was like all his emotion had been turned off. A few precise movements had Felicity free and safe, and the madman barely standing, writhing in pain._

 _This man who had hurt and killed so many. This man who had seriously injured and temporarily paralyzed a woman Oliver loved. This man who had kidnapped his innocent son._

 _But most of all, this man who had taken someone from him._

 _The archer almost laughed out loud as the realization slowly sunk in._

" _Promise to hurt the love of my life all you want. It's an empty threat." And if there was confusion all around him, if the blonde next to him looked at him incredulously and disbelieving, none of it registered to Oliver Queen. What had been an iron-like resolve turned to white-hot pain, and his focus became blurry with rage._

" _You have already killed her."_

 _..._

"So what changed, that made you suddenly realize what your _friend_ had really meant to you?"

The question should have been harmless by itself, but still it stung. Sometimes the doctor hit a nerve with such precision, Oliver would be tempted to just get up and storm out. But he had decided, after the first handful of sessions, after he had started opening up more and more about what had happened to him on the island, that he didn't want to be that kind of man anymore. None the less, his first instinct was still to run away.

And each time, he'd just grit his teeth, and tell himself 'Not this time'.

"For a moment, I thought what I would do, what it would mean if I lost her too..." A long pause followed, as he tried to go back, so see everything from a different perspective, just like they had discussed.

"And that is when I realized that the thought scared me, terrified me even... That it would tear me apart, and scar me... But not as bad as loosing her _already had_."

"Had?"

"Still does, actually. I realized in that moment that not much in this world would ever compare to that pain. Because I might still care very much for my ex-fiancé, but Laurel... Laurel had been a part of my life for more than fifteen years."

Saying it out loud finally made it real. The confession that had slipped out in that moment weeks ago was one of the harshest truths he ever had to acknowledge. There were only two things in this world that could break him worse: losing his sister, and losing the son he had never really known. But the latter was something he had sworn to never speak to anyone about again, and that included his therapist.

"And no matter how much I lied to myself and convinced myself to walk away, to finally move forward... It hit me then that I never really _stopped_ loving her."

 _..._

Looking back, Oliver would never be able to remember how he had ended up getting an apartment together with Thea. And maybe some people might think it weird for someone of his age to share a place with their sibling. And yet, it ended up being exactly what they both needed.

The new place was different. There were no corners where memories might jump at them, no carpets to cover blood stains, no lingering scent of a woman who was gone. It was a fresh start for both of them. A step towards healing, towards repairing their relationship. Piece by piece they rebuilt, whether by spending hours painting a wall of the living room a soft, light green, or staying up until late at night, just talking.

Everything bad that had ever happened between them was not forgotten, but forgiveness came more easily with each day, each confession and new understanding reached. Their ghosts would haunt them for years to come, and sometimes they got angry or frustrated with each other and argued. Sometimes they didn't see each other for a few days, when their schedules just didn't overlap. But that was okay, because someone always left a note on the fridge.

There were still reminders of _her_ around in this new place too. And it still hurt sometimes to look at her favorite coffee mug, which had become one of Thea's favorites. Other times he still had trouble looking at the photos they had put on the sideboard, some of which featured her. Always smiling, always beautiful, always _alive_.

He knew that with Sara's blessing, Thea had kept the black leather jacket, the one that had been gifted from Nyssa, to Sara, to Laurel. One day, Thea would be healed enough from this loss to put it on and wear it with a smile. And when that day came, Oliver didn't know whether he would smile with her or cry silent tears.

... _.._

"Do you feel like you have failed her?" The question, while seeming totally unrelated to their current topic, wasn't a new one. It had come up before, and the answer had been the same then, even if the reasons had been different. _Yes_ , he had failed Laurel so many times, in so many different ways. But this was different, and he said as much to Dr. Ellis.

"Different how? You've already confessed to me how badly you treated her. How you threw her addiction in her face, multiple times. Because you so desperately needed her to match up to the picture you had kept of her, and she no longer could. How you tried to put her down so she wouldn't do something dangerous because _you_ were afraid. And how you tried to walk away, because cutting ties seemed the better solution for you both. How is you not realizing your own feelings for her any different, any worse than all these things?"

For a long time, Oliver said nothing.

"I don't know," he confessed finally, with a heavy heart. "Maybe, because she died believing a lie. She deserved to know the truth. About why I did what I did, why I said what I said, acted like I did. And she deserved to know how much she really meant..." And maybe that was the reason why it was different. Of all the things he had done to her, of all the ways he had mistreated her as his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend or even his friend – she had forgiven him, time and again.

And what was worse, she had _still_ loved him.

 _..._

 _Damien Darhk was at his mercy. Powerless and bleeding on the ground. Without his magic, he was nothing. Just a man. Beaten, and utterly defeated, but still alive. Still drawing breath, while Laurel would never breathe again. His vision was clouded by rage and absolute hate, and in that moment, Oliver Jonas Queen knew with absolute certainty that he would end this man before him. For Laurel._

 _His hand moved on its own accord back to his quiver, taking a special arrow which he carried for this one purpose only. Dark gray carbon, with midnight black feathers, and a broad, vicious looking and sharp bladed hunting tip. Drawing back, he thrust the projectile straight between the downed man's ribs, tip angled up so it would reach the man's heart as well. The dying scream of a monster echoed all around him and he finally, finally felt the sweet relief of revenge..._

It took him longer than usual to wake from the dream. Longer than usual to realize that this feeling of relief was just a figment of his imagination, something he would never get to experience. Because in reality, he had drawn back his arm to beat the life out of Damien Darhk.

But something had stopped him mid motion. The feeling of the one piece of her he carried around, the belief that once more he had heard her voice. And he had hesitated and turned around. But as always, _no one_ had been there. No one talking to him, no one holding him back. That one moment had been enough to remind him that Laurel wouldn't have advocated revenge over justice, even if this _was_ justice. But Oliver Queen, the Vigilante, the Hood, the Arrow, the Green Arrow – they were all one and the same killer. What difference would have one more murder, committed in cold blood, in burning hot, _desperate_ thirst for revenge, have made.

Even if it meant breaking the last promise he ever made to her.

 _..._

"Now, we have talked about the losses you've suffered. Why do you think this last one was the one to... How did you put it? 'Finally tip you over the edge'?"

At first, he had no idea how to respond. As it often happened, he had to mull the question over for a few moments, examine it from every angle.

"Isn't it obvious? I... love- _loved_ her."

"Yes. And we have talked about how unaware you were of your own feelings. But didn't you also love your father? Your mother, your best friend? Or even the other women you talked about?"

Òliver frowned at that, confused by this line of arguing.

"Of course... But I loved them in different ways. She was my constant, my _home_. For five years, the thought of my family and her got me through the worst moments."

"So tell me: Considering how many times you were left behind before... Why do you think is it so much more difficult now?"

"They didn't leave me behind. They _died._ " His words took on a harsher edge, as he stared at his therapist, irritation rising within. "They all died. Most of them were even outright _murdered_."

Dr. Ellis stared back at him unblinking, pen still poised in the air over his notebook.

"Yes. But the outcome was the same, wasn't it? On the island, you lost someone and comforted yourself with the thought that at least Laurel was safe, and alive and everything else _home_ meant to you. And who do you think of now, with her gone?"

He opened his mouth to reply, to refute this idea that Laurel had been not only his home, but also the safety blanket that allowed him to move on from everyone else dying around him, because he had held firm in his belief that she would somehow always be there. That she would always be a constant in his life, one way or another. But no words would come out, and his thoughts twisted and turned and he tried to straighten out this mess until he no longer knew anything.

 _..._

On a busy Monday, when he was in the middle of eating his well-earned lunch, Thea burst into his office.

"Reschedule whatever you've got planned for the weekend. We're going on a trip."

Still chewing, it took a moment for the older sibling to react. Unfortunately, that moment was enough for his sister to already have skipped from the room, leaving him utterly confused.

On Tuesday, he was finally able to wheedle some details out of her.

"Pack light and for the outdoors. That shouldn't be much of a problem for you," she said, impish smile firmly in place. Not that it actually explained anything.

On Wednesday, she simply told him to be ready to leave Friday afternoon.

On Thursday, even Diggle didn't seem to know what the younger Queen had planned, but also seemed unwilling to make any efforts to help him out.

On Friday, he was barely able to come home, change into more relaxed clothes and grab his bag, before Thea pulled him down to the garage and her car. There was no discussion as to who would drive, as he still didn't know where they were going.

After almost two hours of light conversation, his sister singing along loudly to the radio, and more and more miles between them and the city, the area outside turned more rural. Houses became more sparse as they drove on, and Thea quieted down.

"So, will you finally tell me where we're going?" he asked, after deciding that he had been patient long enough.

Thea chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. He recognized it as an outward sign of her nervousness, which she used to display from the time she was four and had to recite a poem in kindergarten. She had gotten better over the years, especially in the last few, at containing her nerves, but with people she trusted, her nervous tick would sometimes still show.

"Do you remember Holly McHew? She was doing archery in my club, back when I was still competing, years ago."

"Weren't you kind of.. what did you call it, 'friendly rivals'?" he asked, now utterly confused.

"Yes, back then she was more of a frenemy, who would occasionally drive me insane by beating me at competitions. Anyway, she went on to study economics, but kept archery as a very active hobby. She's actually a certified trainer now," the nervous lip-bite had disappeared, but he still saw her insecurity in how tightly she gripped the steering wheel. Also, she wouldn't look at him.

"So...?" he probed gently, not sure what Holly McHew had to do with, well, anything.

Thea steeled herself for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then explained, "I ran into her a few months ago, and we kept in touch since then. She has a cabin in a remote location, where she actually built a small range. That's where we're going."

"You're taking me to a weekend retreat at an _archery range_?" Oliver's disbelief was audible in his question, and something twisted inside of him in discomfort.

"Ollie, you haven't been able to shoot without spacing out, or freaking out, since Laurel died." He recoiled at that, suddenly on the defense, mouth opening to lash out, but she was faster. "No, let me finish. I talked about it with Roy-"

He interrupted harshly, "You've been in contact with _Roy_? Do you know how dangerous that is for him!"

She shot a dark look at him, and he quieted instantly. Right. Trust. They had talked about this. He had to trust that while she was his _little_ sister, and he had a right to worry, she was also an adult, capable of weighing risks and seeing possible outcomes.

"He called me after Laurel died, because he was worried about me. And I think he needed someone to talk to about her. Lyla set us up with a off-the-books secure connection. Mostly we communicate via online message boards, buried under aliases and a whole lot of often annoying code-speak."

She didn't know why she felt the need to explain herself. Maybe, because in a way it felt selfish to covet the comfort this continued contact brought her. Even if they were careful, they could never be sure that she wasn't putting him in danger. But even thought she had tried to cut herself loose many times, he was among the very, very few people left in this world she trusted without reservation, the only person who understood her. Mostly they talked about mundane things, but sometimes one of them would unburden themselves and their feelings.

It was far from perfect, it probably wasn't the smartest thing for either of them, but it _worked_. And it made them both happy. And if Laurel's death had taught Thea anything, it was that one should take what little happiness one could, because one day it might be snatched away.

"Anyway, since I'm sick of seeing you whack bad guys in the face with that way too expensive compound bow, we got an idea. Maybe what you actually need is to go back to the basics. And that's why we're out here. And that's all I'm gonna tell you for now. So please, trust me?"

The discussion was closed, and as much as Oliver wanted to protest, to demand answers _now_ , he didn't. She was asking for his trust. He would give it.

"Okay."

After arriving at a small house miles from the next town, unpacking and eating a light dinner comprised of sandwiches and salad they had brought, Thea led him down into the basement. He had seen her disappear down there for a short time after they had first arrived, carrying a long package and something that looked suspiciously like a bow case.

When he stepped into the room, it became instantly clear that it was a workshop. Targets were set up at a far wall, and a large workbench dominated another wall. Several shelves lined the wall with neatly labeled boxes.

"Now, Holly loves to tinker with her arrows, so she set all of this up. All kind of materials, tools for cutting and sharpening tips, a setup for paper testing, and so on..." If he wasn't mistaken, Thea sounded envious, and he understood why. In all of their bases, they never had spent much time on the basics of archery. He hadn't actually built his own arrows in years, hadn't taken much time to think much about the composition of the ones that had been bought for him. The compound bow he used was a weapon itself, without needing much of the more delicate adjustments. Sure, it needed care and regular check-ups, and he took great care in always testing out the alignment of his bow sight. But still. This, _this_ was something completely different.

"So, I brought a few things. Different packs of wooden shafts, all completely raw. We can use all the other material Holly has here, feathers and tips and grooves, or we can use her tools to carve grooves or nocks directly. Whatever you feel like doing, that's the plan for today.

And tomorrow, we're going outside to shoot." While speaking, she had moved over to the table, opening one of the bags to reveal several bundles of wooden arrow shafts.

Still, there was one thing that had Oliver frowning, "But... wooden arrows and compound bows don't really go together." And they didn't, as the force of a compound bow was too great for the weaker material to withstand.

Thea smiled a self-satisfied smile, obviously pleased that he hadn't outright rejected her plans. Moving over to the table, she started unpacking the long object, and opened the bow case.

"Which is why I brought these."

There on the table were the type of bows Oliver had learned to shoot with, the more down to earth version, the basics. A simple wooden long bow, a shorter hunter's bow and the wooden limbs and riser which could be put together to form a wooden recurve bow. All of them were well-crafted, but nowhere near high-end. Still, something called to Oliver as he took a closer look, inspecting every one of the three bows, trusting Thea to have picked out bows with the proper draw weight for him.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn't immediately think of blood and of death, but of the simple feel of a bow in his hand. He turned then, crushing his sister to him and whispered a choked gratitude. In that moment, he loved her more than anyone else left in this world. He lacked the words to express how grateful he was that, although they had both lost their paths again and again, she hadn't given up on him.

 _..._

Days later, after a weekend of relearning the simpler and yet infinitely more difficult details of how to build arrows and tune them to fit a certain bow, Oliver was back in Dr. Ellis' office. He felt calmer somehow, like a part of himself, the part that had identified so strongly with being an archer, had somehow settled back. He wasn't ready to use his compound bow yet, wasn't ready for the sharp and lethal arrows he had used in the last years. But the wooden recurve felt good in his hands, and they had worked on how to make their arrows less lethal and destructive, but still useful.

Finally, he voiced what had been tugging at the back of his mind that weekend, "I remembered something."

The doctor didn't push, but gave him time to voice his thoughts.

"I used to hate shooting a bow, because it was a means for survival. And it reminded me of... of Shado, and Yao Fei, and losing them. That's why I left the simple wooden bows behind initially. But. The last year I was stuck on that island, I had a lot of time to think. And I started shooting not just for survival, or for fight. I started to relax into it, to clear my mind. It brought a certain kind of peace. I think I'm starting to remember what it felt like." He didn't mention the part about how when he held a bow, shooting as sport felt less like he was just a killer.

"That certainly seems like progress. I am happy to hear it." The pen flew over the paper, and Oliver recognized it as his therapist sensing that there was something hidden he wasn't saying. But his history as a murderer wasn't what he wanted to talk about, not yet. Maybe not ever. There were certain parts he had to stay away from, if only to keep them both out of jail.

Ellis put down his pen, and studied him closely, "Do you still experience the flashes?"

Months ago, he might have flinched at the question. Back when he had been jumpy, and the nightmares had been relentless. The 'flashes' were moments when he would see ghost images in the corner of his eye, would remember the blood and the hospital. He used to have them regularly, especially when he saw an arrow.

But through hard work, and talking more in an hour than he used to in a whole week, he had gotten better. He still had nightmares occasionally, he still dreamed about the dead, but somehow it had gotten easier.

"They haven't gone away completely. But... they no longer hit me in the face, and they have somehow become easier to ignore. Maybe... maybe I need to finally accept that moment as being a part of me."

Sometimes, admitting that there was a problem was the first step towards dealing with it.

 _..._

"Do you think you earned her forgiveness?"

The Queen siblings were sitting on the roof of their apartment building, the night pleasantly warm around them, comfortable in folding chairs they had brought up.

It had been one of these days, and both were painfully aware that the anniversary of their mother's death was coming up soon. They had started out toasting to both their parents and recalling the good times. Somehow, thinking about Moira and Robert had then brought on stories of Tommy. And from there, unwillingly they had both sunken into a shared silence. Laurel's name had hung unspoken between them, her absence still raw, even if they were a few months shy of a whole year having passed.

Until Thea had suddenly blurted out the question that had been weighing her down for months. There was no need to specify who she was talking about, and her blunt honesty should have hurt him. But the truth was, she wasn't asking for, and hinting at, anything he hadn't asked himself before.

"I don't know," was thus his only reply. His fingers started tugging at the label of the bottle in his hands absentmindedly, while he contemplated how much more he was able to say. They had grown closer in the last year, and he tried to be there for Thea, to listen to her when she needed someone. But opening up to someone was a two-way street, and he regularly struggled with it. Going to therapy had helped in that regard – was still helping, actually.

Thea settled back further in her chair, neck craned far back to look up at the stars.  
"I never understood..." Her voice had lost its previous sharper edge, and she sounded wistful. "After everything... the cheating, the lying and secret keeping, the abandonment... The part where you hooked back up with Sara, the horrible way you treated her when she became the Black Canary, and even after that... She still forgave you."

Oliver remained silent, because there was nothing to say in this moment. He knew Thea wasn't trying to intentionally hurt him by compiling all his greatest failings when it came to Laurel Lance.

"I mean, I get that she was no saint, and that you both tended to lash out at each other. But... beyond her constant forgiveness, no matter how much you messed up... In the end, she still loved you. And I... I was angry at her for that."

That part did surprise him.

"Why?"

"Because I felt like she was being stupid. You're my brother, but she was my friend. And I kept wondering how she always found a way to forgive you. Heck, _I_ had trouble with some of the stunts you pulled. But, when you told me that she had confessed to still loving you, I got mad. Because she had deserved someone who wouldn't keep pulling away from her. And I felt like... If I had known all these years, that she still loved you, I could have helped her through that." Thea's voice had dropped lower, her quiet words stinging all the more for their truth. But still, she continued on, "Whether she was consciously aware of her feelings or not, it can't have been easy for her, to see the love of her life with another woman... And for everyone around her, including the man who had once sworn he loved her, to forget that she had ever mattered."

"I never forgot. That was part of the problem." Every word was difficult to force past his lips, and he felt his regrets weigh him down. "I knew I would only let her down eventually, so after Tommy's death, I tried to stay away. And then I started to forcefully push her away, again and again, so she would finally, one day, stop forgiving me. It was easier to be an asshole to her, than face the truth that my feelings were never really gonna go away. It never even occurred to me, that the reason why she kept forgiving me was because she still..." The words got stuck in his throat then, and he blinked rapidly, feeling wetness in the corners of his eyes.

"Because she still loved you? Yeah, I have a feeling that didn't occur to her either, until it was too late." There was a sound between a choke and a small laugh. "After all, who wants to admit to themselves that they might _still_ be in love with their ex?" And if a note of self-reflection carried in that rhetorical question, the younger Queen was not ready to admit it.

"I guess in the end, we were just two dumbasses in love, blind and deaf to what really mattered."

Thea chuckled then, and the sound broke the somber atmosphere.

"My, my, the great philosopher Oliver Queen has spoken."

 _..._

"Tell me about your father," Ellis requested. The low afternoon sun was streaming in through the windows, painting the walls a dark yellow, almost orange tone.

"My father? Why?"

"You haven't mentioned him since we talked about his death. I'm curious, that's all."

The request did seem strange and came rather unexpected, and a part of Oliver, the lonely, stubborn wolf persona the island had made him, wanted to refuse. To resist, and to hoard his feelings. As usual, he thought about Thea, and pushed that part down. Bottling everything up was what had gotten him to this moment in the first place.

"He... he was a good father. He loved my sister and he loved me. He tried to be there for us, not only for the big moments, but also the small, even though he had a large company to run.

He was a good father. But probably not really a good man."

The doctor nodded then, seemingly in deep in thought, "So why do you never talk about him?"

"Because... when I think about him, all I can remember is how he took up that gun and shot himself in the head."

 _..._

The office was small, but well-lit and friendly. Somebody had put much care into decorating and making people feel welcome. A task Oliver was sure the owner of the room had not accomplished by himself. The nameplate on the desk was brand new, and without thinking, he picked it up to admire it.

"Private investigator Quentin Lance. Has a nice ring to it," he complimented. The older man swept into the office behind him, carrying a box of files.

"Yeah, well, the PI business is where all the washed up cops go. Especially the ones who got kicked out of the force." The box was put away, and Lance sat down behind the desk, wordlessly prompting Oliver to do the same on the other side with a wave of his hand.

"So, did you just come by to admire my new name tag, or was there actually a reason for your visit?"

Oliver chuckled, finding a strange sort of comfort in the way Lance was talking to him. There was no real bite behind the words, just a wry sense of humor that reminded him of Laurel.

"I wanted to see how you were settling in. And to thank you."

That got a reaction out of the man, "For what? My name was already in the mud for aiding and abetting. Heck, my own daughter was outed as a vigilante. It wasn't difficult for people to get from Laurel to you and your association with me." A sigh followed, the sign of a man resigned to his fate, but trying to make the best of it.

"But still, what you did for me is the only reason I'm not in jail right now. So thank you."

"Yeah well, somebody had to get that son of a bitch. But you better believe that I was tempted to turn you in. A part of me wanted to take all these shreds of evidence and offer them up on a silver platter, instead of erasing them."

The younger man was surprised by this revelation, "You were?"

Ruefully, Quentin shook his head, "Not seriously, but for a moment I hoped... I hoped that if I put you in custody _again_ , she might come back just to bail you out. Again. Stupid, but..."

"No. I get it." And he did. How many times had he imagined a scenario where she would suddenly be there, like nothing had ever been wrong, joking about playing dead for a while? Too many to count.

"I think Laurel would be very proud of what you have accomplished here, PI Lance." The new title rolled off his tongue without trouble, and although it felt foreign, it also felt right. A sign that people were finally starting to move on, to get better. It was a hard and long road they were still traveling, but it was what Laurel would have wanted for them.

"You know what? I think for once I will have to agree with you, Queen."

The men smirked at that, a certain peace settling into place between them. Even in the days ahead, when they would inevitable find themselves butting heads over cases, or arguing over details, there would always be one common denominator between them: the legacy of Laurel Lance.

 _..._

"I put her on a pedestal while I was away," he felt the words slip out, without conscious thought anymore. How long had he stewed silently over how and where they had gone so wrong. "I put her on a pedestal. And when I came back, I wasn't ready to see her fall from it. But she did fall, and I couldn't deal with that. She fell further, and further, and instead of helping, I got angry. Because I felt so powerless, and I was overwhelmed with everything else going on in my life. So I lashed out. I tried to wash my hands of her." Out and out the confessions were tumbling, and it felt horrible to voice all of this, and yet freeing at the same time.

"I needed her so much to be _whole_ , to be herself, to be this girl in the picture I had kept with me and in my heart for five years." The same picture he now held in his hands, staring at it intently. The air in the office was still, and each word rang louder than the last.

"But that wasn't fair to her. What kind of man does that to someone they claim to love?"

There was desperation in his voice, and all his guilt poured out at once. It was a rhetorical question more than a real one, because in his mind he knew the answer: a selfish man. Because that was what he was.

"Do you think she perceived it like that?" Dr. Ellis asked, cutting through his inner turmoil.

"What do you mean? She reamed me out enough times to let me know where I stood with her." He thought back, to the hospital after Sara's resurrection, to the look she had given him after being introduced to Samantha Clayton. That conversation in particular would forever echo in his memory.

 _'I should have been honest with you.'  
'No. Oliver should have been.'_

"Yes, she said her piece, as was her right. But after all of that... Oliver, weeks ago you were telling me how you couldn't understand how she kept forgiving you. And yet, here you are now, asking me how a man can be so selfish to hurt someone they love again and again. Do you not see how these pieces fit together?"

His mouth opened and closed a few times, a reply on the tip of his tongue that wouldn't come out. Brow furrowed, he replied, "No, honestly I don't. I was selfish, and I kept hurting her because of that. She forgave me anyway."

"Because she loved you. That didn't make her stupid, or a masochist, or desperate. Now, I obviously didn't know her personally, but from what you told me, I think it was very much in her nature to forgive people their mistakes. To give second chances, and if necessary third and fourth chances. So it was only natural for her to feel frustrated and hurt, and lash out when others weren't as forgiving." The doctor readjusted his glasses, pausing in his explanation. He normally didn't speak this much, preferring to let his patients puzzle things out themselves, guided along by his questions. It wasn't his job to tell people how they felt, or explain their feelings to them. It was his job to help them find the issues that really bothered them, and aid them in dealing with them. Maybe in this case, a different approach was needed.

"Did you ever tell her how guilty you felt?"

"I tried, when I came back. But... later on, we didn't really talk much for a time. Especially not about our feelings. So I guess... no, I never really told her everything." But he should have. Should have cleared the air, instead of letting them run into fight, after fight, after fight. They swept the whole William incident under the rug, instead of every talking about it. Just like so many other things that had stood between them.

Looking back, he realized how much he had wanted to open up, but thought she wouldn't be receptive to it. Only in the last few weeks, when they had started training together more frequently, and he had found himself basking in her unconditional support and faith, had the thought started to creep back in. The thought that maybe, they could build something, could finally move forward.

"Alright, let me ask you this: Was she the kind of person who would have reveled in somebody else drowning in their shame and guilt?"

The reply came instantly, without thought, "Of course not!"

"Then, if she wouldn't have wanted this for you. Why do you keep doing it to yourself?"

The answer, when it came, was barely a whisper. "Because I'm afraid to let go."

 _..._

 _He was about to kill Damien Darhk with his bare hands._

 _But something inside of him was urging him to stop and think. To remember his promise not to get lost in a thirst for revenge. The old and battered photo he had taken to carrying around again suddenly felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. Indecision and doubt froze him in place. The burning rage and thirst for vengeance were fighting against the need to be better, to prove the loyalty simmering in his heart and not let_ her _down again. His internal struggle found him standing on the precipice of change, staring into the abyss._

 _That one moment which seemed to last forever, but in reality was only a few seconds long, was enough for a third party to move in._

 _Before the Green Arrow had so much as reacted to the unexpected presence next to him, Spartan was there, gun in hand, and emptied a round of bullets into Damien Darhk's skull._

 _And just like that, justice was served. And a promise kept._

 _..._

The statue was beautiful.

The wings of the bird were outstretched, beak open as if in the middle of a cry. The monument was a work of art, all fine lines and hours upon hours of work gone into the process of forming the marble.

Weeks ago, Oliver Queen had been noticeably absent from the dedication ceremony, where Quentin Lance had shook hands with the city council. Oliver, who had chosen to watch from the shadows as Green Arrow instead, had observed how the man hugged each of the seven art students who had worked on the statue. The vigilante still couldn't remember the mission where the Black Canary had swooped in to stop a local gang from trashing the only remaining art school in the Glades, but the students had. It was their dedication and gratefulness, coupled with their teacher's experience and a donation for material, that had seen the marble come to life. A petition to city hall had, very much as a surprise for all, ended with the statue being placed on the pier in a small dedication ceremony to 'The Heroes of the City'. It was never explicitly mentioned which heroes they were honoring, but the fact that Quentin Lance, formerly of the SCPD, had been invited, and the bird motive in itself spoke all that the city council would officially never say.

Now, as the last rays of the sun slowly set over the ocean, painting the marble yellow like the bird it represented, Oliver stood in front of the monument, lost in thought.

Much had changed in the last year, and he knew his struggle was far from over.

But much like the group of students who had spent months working on a statue, just to express their gratitude, much like the people who regularly came to the statue to find a spark of hope, he now knew that he would keep going on. He would keep fighting for this city, would keep working on his issues and problems, instead of running from then. He would be a better brother, a better man, a better protector.

Absentmindedly, he traced the Latin words on the plague. They meant nothing to him, but he dimly remembered them having something to do with hope for the future. Or maybe that was just what her memory represented for him.

He smiled then, thinking how fitting it was for the woman who had always fought for tomorrow.

"Dinah Laurel Lance. Always trying to save the world."

 _..._

Once upon a lifetime, he had sworn to use his father's list to put wrongs to right, to punish those who had failed this city.

Once, he had knelt next to the dead body of his best friend and decided to never kill again.

Once, he had promised that he would make things right.

Once, he had said that he would never leave her.

Once, he had sworn to look after his little sister.

Once, he had told his team that he would be careful and return to them.

Once, he had gone down on one knee and promised a woman he would marry her.

Once, he had promised so many things, sworn too many oaths to keep, taken up one commitment after another.

Once, he had thought he could do it all.

Now, there were three promises he held himself to, three truths he would live for:  
If you take a life, let it be a last resort for justice, not a thoughtless act of rage and revenge.  
Be a better person to the ones who love you.  
Be there for the people you love.

* * *

 **Epilogue: In Any Other World**

"Ollie."

He whirled around, expecting there to be nothing like always, for it to be the usual figment of his imagination. Just like the Canary Cry that had sounded so far away and yet so real. Just like the battle-cry, the sounds of combat and creaking leather.

None of it had been real since her death. She had never been there. Not once in the in the last two years, eight months and eleven days. At some point, he had thought that he was done chasing ghosts.

But... no. Either he had finally lost his mind. Or she was standing _right there_.

"Laurel?"

* * *

 _Afterword:_

I hope you enjoyed this little foray of mine into Oliver's character and how, had they kept more of his season one and two persona, he might have reacted to Laurel's death. Was it what you expected, or did it leave you wanting something different? If you have a moment, I'd greatly appreciate a comment to tell me what you think.

I will be posting some of the other Arrow stories I have lying around in the coming weeks, so keep an eye out if you enjoyed this one.

There are a few issues I feel like I must address:

First, therapy is different for everyone. So if this feels disjointed or strange, or messy and not at all the expected "Aha!" moment where a character has this huge revelation – all of that is quite deliberate.

Also, besides his immense survivor's guilt, the show heavily hinted at Oliver suffering from PTSD. But that wasn't a challenge I was prepared to tackle. I don't feel adequately knowledgeable in this area, and I'm sure others have done a better job on Oliver's psyche before.

Secondly: I've seen people online fight a whole lot about Oliver's character, and who mistreated who in his relationships with Laurel. There's a whole lot of fighting and lashing out between those two, and people seem to either blame one or the other for it, making the other out to be some kind of villain, or abuser. I hope that I was able to achieve a little more balance. Keep in mind that this is mostly how Oliver views himself, and his actions. In his mind, his guilt is thus justified.


End file.
